


Deluge

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Krycek gets pensive





	Deluge

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Deluge by Tj

22 September 1998  
Deluge  
By Tj, September 1998  
Rated R M/K  
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I'm poor.  
Spoilers: None.  
Summary: Krycek gets pensive.  
Beta reading by Quintabulous.  
Feedback welcome and appreciated at: 

* * *

It's morning and I have to go. This isn't the first morning, but it is the morning where I will leave and never return.

It's raining outside, earth tears, warm pelts spilling through the trees, painting the pavement a dark grey that matches the sky. I long to turn my face up into it and laugh in a fit of madness until the rain runs into my mouth and down my throat, until it chokes me. I long to lie down under it naked, let the rain fill in my scars, pool in the crevices and make me whole. I like the rain; people don't stare as hard when it's raining.

I'm watching Mulder sleep. He's kicked the covers off. It's a muggy day and the room feels damp, stifling. I watch him inhale and exhale deeply. His eyes are still; he's probably not dreaming. I stand here awake and alert, and I am the one who is dreaming. Inside my head I am screaming, running from demons that can't be outrun. You can't tell this by looking at me. I look calm. Looks are so deceiving. People are so deceiving. I know this well. Mulder knows this well. But we don't talk about it.

Every second that Mulder and I spend together, we do so lying to one another. We lie in secret, we lie in wait, we lie down together. We lie about this: that our relationship is a good thing, that I am a good person.

Let me tell you a little story with a lot of irony. It is true that I am a better person, now. It is exactly that, this learned goodness, that is ending our relationship; because I in all good conscience cannot allow it to continue. I am leaving so I can give Mulder his honesty back. I have shaped his life into a form distorted, much like myself; I'm going to set him free of that.

We have been pretending for so long now, writing the script as we go along to suit our needs, but unable to erase the passages of yesteryears. So we shuffle those pages around, put them away, and let dust collect thick so that we can no longer read the words. Too bad we have them memorized.

I wish I could look back on my life and muse upon the person I use to be. I cannot muse, because I am still that same person. I haven't had a permanent out-of-body experience -- this Alex and that Alex. There does not exist two versions of me. I haven't forgotten how to spill blood.

Mulder is aging. I can see grey coming in, lines on his face in places where there used to be none. I look the same. Because this is my life and not his. I am a vampire feeding off of his goodness, siphoning his soul; with nothing to give back in return, not even the eternal life of a demon.

I have touched Mulder's life. I could mean this in a good way, but I don't.

Our lives are bookended by piles of dead bodies. Bullets given to enemies like flowers to lovers. Surprise. I was just thinking about you.

Outside, the rain is slowing to a soft trickle. If I leave now, it will run gently over my face, an imitation of Mulder's fingertips, the gentle brushes that tickled so that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Mulder likes to touch my face, that's where he starts every time we make love. Touches against every fold, hair, slant. Hot breath on my eyelids, fingers at my lips, kisses against my temples. Thinking of this makes me burn every place he's ever touched me. I burn from head to toe.

I'm not going to leave him a note. Which trite phrase would I choose? What I'm doing is for the best. This hurts me more than it hurts you. I'm doing this for your own good. It will all work out in the end.

The only thing I can really think of to write is 'I love you'. But I can't take the thought of him wadding up that note and throwing it away. He's going to be mad.

I think he knows that I love him. I told him that once, while he was sleeping. My head was on his shoulder, face turned inwards. It came out as a wet and muffled whisper against his collarbone. The words were so true. My body tingled. It gave me a hard-on.

I want to touch him, feel his breath and pulse under my hands. I can't, though, or he might awaken. If he awakens I might never go. There is nothing else left to do. I leave, turning my back on Mulder.

I walk outside into the rain. It does not wash away my sins, and the sky is not grey enough.


End file.
